


the end of a dream

by paulmcgann



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 20:28:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4578861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paulmcgann/pseuds/paulmcgann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson has three names. Vicodin has one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the end of a dream

(i) Wilson

Wilson. Wilson. It rolls off the tongue pleasantly, comfortably. From the moment he first thinks it it’s already familiar. Wilson is a name for a child’s well-loved bear, for a little boy in an adventure novel. A name that couldn’t possibly hide a cruel personality. It’s a name that couldn’t possibly belong to House. From the second he learns it it’s the only name on his mind. Somehow it softens everything, somehow _he_ softens everything. House knows it’s irrational. How quickly he’s fallen for it, for how quickly he’s fallen for someone he barely knows other than his fucking _name,_ for Christ’s sake – but somehow it can’t be stopped from whirling around his mind. Bitter as he is about it, he gets the same warmth from it as he does from Vicodin. He catches himself writing it down like a fifteen-year-old lovesick schoolboy, but his cynicism doesn’t override the soft warmth that flows through him whenever he thinks it. Wilson.

 

 

(ii) James.

House is pissed. Chest hot with whiskey, he hisses the name, spits it out as though it’s choking him from the inside out. Maybe it is.

It’s snowing, it’s Christmas, it’s happy season, it’s fucking _Wilson_ season. The others are inside, indulging in the usual tradition of drinks-and-quiet-laughter-and-try-not-to-complain-about-House-tonight. Despite House’s best attempts, they’re content, and somehow that makes it worse. He can’t even piss people off properly these days. Not that he wants to, not any more. It’s lost its joy, but he can’t stop or they’d know something to be wrong. So there he is, alone, unable to feel his fingers and unable to care, kicking at snow with his shitty leg – need to get the pain _out_ dominating the few sensibilities he has left. Need – every fibre of his being is electric with it. Need for Vicodin, or need for Wilson – he’s lost his ability to differentiate between them. Vicodin, he thinks, aware that the savagery with which he’s kicking at the snow is going to make tomorrow a very, very difficult day, Vicodin can only do so much. He can’t exactly take Vicodin by the tie, or push it up against a wall and kiss the living daylights out of it. He can’t mumble apologies, can’t whisper sentimental bullshit in its ear – not that it _would_ be bullshit, not with him.

Some part of House _wants_ Wilson to come out, some part of him wants him to see what he’s become. Isn’t love, or whatever the hell this is, meant to bring out the best in people? Isn’t this meant to feel _good?_

House glares at the snow, vaguely aware of Christmas carols drifting out of the foyer. Hospital staff drift out of PPTH, tipsily singing along. Everyone has at least one other person with them. Great.

Whether or not he’s walking out too, House just knows that Wilson is in there, somewhere, mumbling the wrong lyrics.

With one last kick at the snow, one last vicious hiss of Wilson’s first name, he hobbles over to his bike, clambers on, kicks it into gear, and doesn’t stop riding.

  


   


(iii) Jamie.

He calls him Jamie, once, and only once. He’s on the bathroom floor, curled around the toilet. Wilson’s bare arms are wrapped around him, as tight as he can wrap them. This is about as uncomfortable as it gets, as uncomfortable as it can get. Hacking sobs loom below the surface. He contains himself as best he can, digging his fingers into the tiles, pushing down harder than is physically possible, deflecting the pain. Maybe he falls asleep, maybe he passes out.

When he wakes, they’ve relocated to the couch. Wilson sits at its end, legs around House so the back of his head is against his chest. Slender fingers stroke in feather-light touches up and down his forearms. Wilson’s chin rests atop his head, breath tickles at his scalp. House doesn’t hurt. He reaches back, slides his hand up Wilson’s arm, is surprised to find the other man react instantly by intertwining their fingers together. House shifts, moves up and turns over. He can’t let himself do this. He’ll go too far. And then, Wilson’s arms are pulling him down, pulling him in until their faces are inches apart, and the realness, the fact that _this is happening_ hits him hard. He’d always thought that when, if, they kissed, he’d be the one to do it. But now, it’s Wilson sliding his fingers through his hair. It’s Wilson who pulls him in a fraction more, it’s Wilson who finally, fucking finally, brings their mouths together.

After, they lie together, a tangle of arms and legs, a tangle of House and Wilson. His hands run endless circles over Wilson's chest. He doesn't need to say that he loves him. Instead, he lets it fall from his lips. "Jamie."

The Vicodin offers no reply.

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, I was half asleep when I wrote this. Originally it was intended to be cheery. I don't know what went wrong. Plot liberties have been taken, I assume it's fairly clear where the last part came from.  
> (The title was taken from Nicotina by Sparks, a phenomenal tune, and in regards to this not thematically far off the mark.)  
> Hope it's bearable xx


End file.
